


Old Men In Russia

by Tyranno



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Admit it, it is surprising.” Napoleon says, quietly. It <em>is</em> surprising, dammit. From the day he was recruited, he had always assume he would die in an ugly way, bleeding out in some bat country where, if they actually put a name on his grave, it would be the wrong one. Nobody ever expected him to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Men In Russia

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by [the repeated quote here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4733213) "There Are No Old Men In Russia Anymore."

It's a woman who notices first, like most things.

It happens in Sweden, or Belgium, some place huge and open with flowing crystalline waters, some place were the world seemed freshly made every morning. The sun flashes in his eyes.

The dame he's fighting is faster, and stronger, twists of honey-coloured skin and eyes like a wild animal.

Napoleon swings for her shoulder but she's not there anymore, she's striking out like a viper, catching the back of his legs.

When his knees hit the floor, they're almost as surprised as he is. His body jolts like an electric shock.

The woman rests, one leg still half-raised. She raises it slowly, like a cat, and strikes the back of his head.

Napoleon's sure his skull splintered, white pain splashing through his vision.

"Well," The woman peers down at his face, expression almost cute, "not bad for an old man. _Ursäkta._ "

The woman's kick comes again like a bolt of lightning, and Napoleon's last thought is, _Sweden, then_.

* * *

 

Gaby comes before his elaborate back up plan can fall into place, which is just as well, because he doesn't actually speak Swedish.

She comes through the roof (she was always spry) slipping heels back on before slicing through the ropes. Her hair is even wispier than usual, more like a cloud that decided to settle on her head than anything remotely tameable.

Napoleon tugs his wrists free, rubbing them." Tell me, Gaby, am I getting old?" He asked.

Gaby blinked, glancing around the dusty basement dungeon." Do you really want this conversation _now_?"

It isn't a no, but he saw her point." True."

Gaby turns, heels clacking on the stone like the claws of a dog.

* * *

 

He forgets it for a while, among other things. With so many other things happening—reports, Waverly, more reports, paperwork—he can be forgiven, but he hates forgetting. His plans rely less and less on his own sharpness and luck simply because his mind can't be trusted anymore.

He's sitting in a chair that engulfs him, smelling whiskey and cigarette butts, and he remembers. He shifts upright.

Gaby raises an eyebrow at him across the room and Illya glances up from the evening paper. It's just the three of them—it usually is, Waverly is the head of something secret and always being called off. He was shit on missions anyway, to be fair.

Napoleon goes to ask, but doesn't. He takes another swig of whiskey—not his favourite but he'll drink it—and breathes deeply.

Gaby turns back to the piano but Illya doesn't drop his gaze. Illya has always had this annoying sixth sense for pinnacle moments, moments when everything changes. Part of being Russian, he supposes.

"What is it, cowboy?" Illya asks, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs through his nose.

"He thinks he's getting old," Gaby says, pulling the cover back over the piano.

" _Thank you_ , Gaby," Napoleon scowls a little, but can't muster any actual annoyance.

"I'm going downstairs," Gaby announces, throwing her coat over her shoulders." I have to play old woman trying to regain her youth through copious amounts of alcohol."

"You're not an old woman," Napoleon insists.

Gaby shoots him a look and closes the door behind her. She started leaving on queue after Rome, the first time, as a sort of unspoken recompense. But these days she's developed a sort of sixth sense for when they need to be alone. Everyone but him, it seems.

There's always a sort of silence after she leaves. Anticipation, perhaps.

"You think you are old?" Illya says, simply. There is a kind of strength in the way he speaks, simple and powerful, like a shovel to the back of the head.

Napoleon smiles into his drink.

Their knees bump as Illya stands, stepping clean over the coffee table.

"Is that not a good thing?" Illya asks quietly.

Illya is close. His shoulders are broad and sloping, his silhouette is as striking as ever.

Napoleon sighs again, and this time it's even a little wistful.

Illya reaches up, a little hesitant, to trace the bone of his jaw. His fingers are light, scarcely there.

Napoleon leans into his touch, closing his eyes.

Illya runs a thumb over the fingers of grey at Napoleon's temple.

"Admit it, it is surprising." Napoleon says, quietly. It _is_ surprising, dammit. From the day he was recruited, he had always assume he would die in an ugly way, bleeding out in some bat country where, if they actually put a name on his grave, it would be the wrong one. Nobody ever expected him to survive.

Illya cups his head, palms warm on Napoleon's cheeks, running a thumb under his eyes. He does that a lot, and Napoleon wonders sometimes if it means something to him. He never asks.

"I am glad you are not dead yet," Illya says.

It's the first time he's said it aloud, but it isn't a surprise. There is enough unsaid between them to fill ten or so volumes. Napoleon wonders if one day their eyes will get so bad they'll have to communicate solely through words, which is a little disheartening.

Illya is close.

His thighs sit firmly either side of Napoleon's hips, hard muscles boxing him in. It's the sort of situation that would be hard to explain if anyone burst suddenly into the room, but what kind of secret agent doesn't take risks?

They aren't kissing, but they are breathing the same air.

"I always thought I would die before now," Napoleon says, softly, "I'm 48."

Illya's icy eyes almost graze him.

Illya is greying too, although the Russian greys like a wolf, blonde hair dappling with silver.

Illya's hands slip down from Napoleon's face, running his knuckles over his windpipe. He liked to touch, feel the resistance and heat of Napoleon's skin, he'd said once, a long time ago, on the other side of the world. He liked to make sure it was real.

 _Nothing feels real, in a dream,_ He'd mumbled into the back of Napoleon's neck, _you reach out and touch it and…_

Illya's fingers find the base of Napoleon's skull and curl into the hair there. Napoleon tilts his head up, a soft gasp escaping him.

"I am not surprised." Illya said into the arch of Napoleon's neck.

"You're not?" Napoleon says.

Illya straightens his spine, bright eyes sharp. He is closer now, breathing against Napoleon's lips. They are barely a centimetre apart, but Napoleon doesn't move up to meet him. The air seems important somehow.

"No." Illya says, with a smirk, "You were the luckiest bastard I ever knew."

Napoleon laughs and kisses him


End file.
